Crash Years
by grumpishpko
Summary: Nobody ever notices Lorcan Scamander, but that doesn't mean he's not there. One day, he's going to do something very, very stupid and pull himself out of obscurity, and on that day it'll all go to hell. Lorcan's got terrible luck. Eventual mild slash.
1. Introduction

**Author's Note: I do not own Harry Potter.**

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><p>Lysander Scamander is smiling, laughing, melding easily with the crowd of people on Platform 9 ¾ that he has never met before, never seen before, never even heard of before. He is clever, handsome, funny, charming, and utterly enthralling in every way. He is endearingly honest, adorably awkward, and self-deprecatingly perfect. He is new, and special, and everyone wants to be his friend.<p>

And his smiles glitter like noon sunshine on smooth glass, and his eyes sparkle like polished gemstones, and his hair is sticking up a little bit in back but that doesn't really matter, because above all, Lysander Scamander is _cool_. He is especially interesting, not just because of his inherent charm, but also because he is a transfer student from Merlin-knows-where. Somewhere in South America, or so go the rumors that are sweeping around the platform. He went with his war-hero family to study made up animals for eight years, and now it is Lysander's first year at Hogwarts despite the fact that he's already thirteen, and there are whispers and speculations and gossip and giggles and awkward prepubescent lust directed clumsily at him.

And Lysander has only been at Kings Cross for twelve and a half minutes.

But this is not his story.

See that other boy, standing awkwardly with his parents over there? No? That's all right. You're not alone: nobody else sees him either. That boy is Lorcan Scamander, and Lysander is his twin.

They're not identical; they're not even close. They look more like brothers than twins, in all honesty. The familial resemblance is obvious from even a cursory glance, but Lorcan is tall and thin, while Lysander is slightly shorter and stockier. Lorcan has his fathers unruly curls in a warm mahogany color that came from his maternal grandmother, while Lysander's stick-straight hair is halfway between Rolf's platinum and Luna's dishwater-blonde locks. Lysander's eyes are the piercing cerulean of his father's, while Lorcan's are as ethereally silver as his mother's. The boys have the same knobby knees, the same elegant fingers, the same crooked smile. Lorcan has a smattering of freckles across his nose, and ears that stick out, and long long long dark lashes. Lysander has high sculpted cheekbones, and a birthmark shaped like a palm tree on his left ankle, and he moves with a kind of easy grace that comes from both Rolf and Luna and that has bypassed his twin altogether. Lorcan has all his mother's social incompetence, with none of her dreamy self-assurance; Lysander has his father's charm and his mother's confidence, and the ability to make friends anywhere.

But despite all their similarities and all their differences, the truth remains that everyone notices Lysander and nobody notices Lorcan. People see the starry shine of Lysander's eyes, but ignore the moonlike glint of Lorcan's. And if Lysander's crooked smile glitters like diamonds, Lorcan's is slow, rare, and gradual, and gleams comfortingly like a streetlight on wet pavement.

And he gives off one of these smiles now as he hugs his mother goodbye, wrapping his awkward teenage arms around her tiny waist with a fierce desperation. And he looks into his father's eyes and sees in them deep, deep pools of love and devotion. And if Rolf's smile is tinged with sadness that he will never completely understand his youngest son, well, that's nothing new.

And the train is whistling urgently, calling all Hogwarts students to board. Lorcan gives his mother one last, rushed, crushing hug, then speeds off, his trunk clunking awkwardly behind him.

He boards the train. He stumbles awkwardly down the aisle, searching and searching for a place to sit. He passes compartment after compartment full of smiling, laughing groups of friends, and a sinking feeling slowly grows in Lorcan's stomach. He's only now remembering that he doesn't really know anyone here. He doesn't have the slightest idea where to sit or who to sit with. And this feeling of embarrassed panic crashes over Lorcan like a tidal wave, and he swallows, hard, trying to quash the desperation to belong that is boiling inside him.

Lorcan hates people. Well, actually, that's not really true. He doesn't hate people. He hates his complete lack of understanding towards them. He hates how he never comprehends why people say things, do things, act the way the do, talk the way they talk. He hates small talk, and mindless chitchat, and cheery introductions. He hates that feeling after he says something, and nobody replies, and it slowly dawns on him that he just said something egregiously wrong and offensive, and the moment drags on like infinity and the accidentally cruel words hang like knives made of icicles in the space between sentences.

Lorcan hates _that_.

He closes his eyes, feeling hopeless and detached from the world. Finding a seat shouldn't be this painful, he knows, and for most people it _isn't _anywhere near this painful. And Lorcan knows: he lives with Lysander, after all. He sees on a daily basis how easy it should be to get along with the world. But for him, it just isn't.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, lying in the tent he shares with his brother, listening to Lysander's calm and slow breathing and the shrilling of South American insects, Lorcan often wonders if he was born inherently wrong in some way. It often feels as if everyone else has been born with a standardized instruction manual for living, and Lorcan was just passed over in line. He feels like everyone else is following a secret set of rules that are never spoken out loud and that change almost constantly, but that everyone seems disproportionately shocked and horrified when he accidentally breaks them.

Lorcan hates that, too. He just wants to belong.

And so he stands up tall, and takes a deep breath, and pushes open the door to the nearest compartment.

"Hello." he says bravely, expecting the worst. "I'm Lorcan Scamander. Would it be all right if I sat here?"

And the occupants of the compartment look up. They don't seem upset, Lorcan notes detachedly. They seem excited, almost as if they're glad to see him. It's all a bit strange.

The nearest occupant, a slight girl with a big smile and an even larger amount of curly, bright red hair, shoots a dazzling grin at Lorcan. "We already know who you are, Lorcan," she says cheerily. "And don't be ridiculous. Come on, take a seat! We've been waiting."

Correction: it's extremely strange. But Lorcan just nods, and smiles, and shoves his trunk into the carrier, before he slips into the one remaining seat. _What is this? _he wonders, _and who are these people? _He knows literally nobody in the entire country of England. He's lived in Peru since the age of five, looking for Swashbuckling Oliphants, and he got back a little under two weeks ago from said mission (which was, incidentally, entirely unsuccessful).

He looks around, searching for clues. There's the slight redheaded girl, and then a pale blond boy next to her who looks, somehow, spindly. He didn't think people could be spindly, just chairs and trees and insects, but this boy manages it. Then, shoved uncomfortably against the window, is a tiny redheaded boy, obviously a first year and obviously related to the first girl. Across from him is a smiling blonde girl, with hair like moonlight and eyes like stars and the most beautiful lips Lorcan has ever seen-

Lorcan shakes his head to clear it. It's like the girl just made his brain go all fuzzy for no good reason. He doesn't like it, not one bit, and when he looks back at the girl she is still extraordinarily beautiful, but now she seems concrete and real in a way that she didn't before. She waves at him, and he waves back.

And next to him, is a skinny kid with dark messy hair and round glasses and warm hazel eyes and – oh. _Oh. OH!_

He's sitting next to Albus Potter. Albus Severus Potter, son of the famous Boy-Who-Lived, Chosen One, Savior of the Wizarding World Harry Potter, and the legendary Harpies player, the Flaming Fury, and vicious sports reporter, Ginny Weasley. Albus Potter, whose parents saved the world. And Lorcan Scamander, whose parents helped Albus's parents save the world.

Now things make sense. Lorcan is getting brief flashes of playing with a preschool-age Albus in a sandbox, of messing about on toy brooms and falling off swingsets and building a very pathetic snowman together.

Lorcan meets the eyes of the girl, and they're a startlingly intense navy blue, like deep oceans or the midnight sky during a new moon. She must be Rose Weasley, he muses, and he remembers, like a wispy dream, sharing Fudgesicles and getting hit in the face with a dog-eared copy of _Goodnight, Moon. _That makes the boy near the window her brother, Hugo, who Lorcan remembers absolutely nothing of besides a brief flash of the toddler Hugo drooling on his socks. The blonde girl, then, must be another Weasley – almost certainly one of the French ones. A drop of veela blood would explain her shimmering hair and the way Lorcan's head had just gone all blurry, and the Weasley blood would explain her otherwise incongruous freckles. As for the other blond in the compartment, Lorcan has no idea. Even racking his mind desperately for any type of decade old memories, he's coming up blank.

The boy notices his confusion, and sits up straighter. Even in the depths of bewilderment, Lorcan is able to note that this is the haughtiest thirteen-year-old that he's ever met – not that he's ever met a lot of thirteen-year-olds, actually.

"I'm Scorpius Malfoy," the blond boy says imperiously, and holds his pale, thin hand out for a handshake. "It's nice to finally meet one of the elusive Scamanders. Peru, right? How's it feel to be back in England?" Lorcan takes his hand, then reciprocates with a hesitant half-smile. He's heard stories about the Malfoys, and few of them have been good. But Scorpius doesn't seem so bad, not really. A bit snobbish, maybe, but perfectly polite and generally fairly nice.

"Yeah, Peru." Lorcan answers softly. "It actually feels pretty good to be back, though its a really strange adjustment. I've got to get used to a lot of things – the elevation, the climate, the language. It's all so different here, and I've forgotten so much."

"Well, that's okay," Scorpius laughs. "Half of Hogwarts doesn't get the wizarding world, and the other half doesn't get the Muggle world." Scorpius gives a dry chuckle, and continues, snarkily, "So what if you don't get either of them? As long as you've got more than two brain cells to rub together, I have a sneaking suspicion you'll be all right."

Lorcan likes Scorpius immediately. He has no idea why. He resolves to stop judging people based on shaky memories and unreliable stories. After all, he's spent eight years in the Andes mountains. Who's he to judge?

Scorpius smiles again. "So, do you know the rest of this lot already?"

Lorcan looks around the compartment a bit nervously. "Er... Sort of. I remember some of you guys, but I'm sorry. It's been a while and I could use a refresher course on names."

"Sure." Rose says. "We're not offended or anything. I only knew who you were because Mum pointed you out and told me to be nice. If it were up to me, I'd have ignored you completely."

"Rose!" Albus hisses. "Don't be rude!"

"I'm only being honest." Rose says pragmatically, tossing her hair back. "I'd have ignored everyone not already in the compartment. Really, it's not being mean. Do you regularly go up and talk to complete strangers?"

"No," Albus admits, "But you don't say things like that in public. Come on, Rose!"

She shrugs. "I'm just saying what we all know is true. I doubt Lorcan's too offended, and hey! We're talking to him now! I don't see the issue."

Lorcan isn't too offended. He hadn't expected anyone to even acknowledge him, and now that someone had, he didn't care about reasons. "It's fine," he assures his companions. "Really."

"No, it's not!" Albus says hotly. "Rose, that was way out of line! I apologize for the insensitivity of my cousin."

"Not necessary-" Lorcan begins, but his words go unnoticed in the ensuing argument.

"Oh, please!" Rose retorts. "Like you're Little Miss Manners. You can barely use a spoon. What's a little honesty between friends?"

"He is not our friend. He's a distant acquaintance who we're just re-meeting, and you are making a bad impression!"

Scorpius rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. Like anyone cares. Let it go." He turned to Lorcan with a smirk. "That's Albus and Rose, as I'm sure you've gathered. I'm not bothering telling you their last names: if you can't figure that out based on the hair alone, then there's no way I can associate with you, Peru or no. Those two plus me are all just starting our third year here. You're the same, right?"

Lorcan nods. He's glad that he'll at least know a few people in his grade when they arrive at Hogwarts.

Scorpius continues. "Good. Now, Hugo in the corner is Rose's kid brother. He's going to be a first year. He's quiet now, but God knows why, because usually I will literally pay him to shut his ungodly mouth."

Hugo leans over and glared at Scorpius. "Excuse me! Are you trying to say that I talk too much? Because I do not! I talk the perfect amount! Mum says so! And plus, you so do not pay me to be quiet. Sometimes you give me food to leave you alone, but unless you're counting a knut and a stale doughnut as payment, you've never done anything of the sort. And I mean, I'm unbribeable. I'm pure. I'm eleven. I don't even know what bribe means! That's a joke. I'm clever actually. I mean, sort of. So you can take your knut and shove it! Yeah! Oh, hey, Lorcan, right? Did you see any dragons in Peru?"

"Actually, yeah, I did-"

Hugo continues chattering, not even pausing for breath. "I've always wanted to see a dragon. Dad says I don't know what I'm talking about, not really, but just cause he didn't like the one at Gringotts doesn't mean I wouldn't. I'm not like Dad at all, no matter what Aunt Ginny says. I'm going to grow up and be just like Uncle Charlie and work with dragons. And then I'm going to be a huge hero like pretty much our whole family and I'll save the world and be super rich and then won't you be sorry, right, Scorpius? You're always mean to me. I don't like it. I'm not giving you any of my hero points. Huh? Right? Yeah, I'll ride around on my dragon and you'll just-"

"Oh, will you shut up?" The pretty blonde has finally thrown her two cents in. "You do talk too much. Nobody cares about a thing you're saying, Hugo." She turns to Lorcan. "I'm Dominique Weasley. I'm going to be a fourth year, so Merlin only knows why I'm still hanging out with these guys." She smiles, and Lorcan has to focus hard to keep the weird fizziness out of his head.

"It's nice to meet you," he finally gets out. He's desperately racking his mind for more things to say when a cheery witch with a trolley knocks on the compartment door and offers candy. The rest of the compartment leaps at the chance to gorge themselves upon sugar, but Lorcan remains seated. He's fairly sure that Lysander has both the pocket money the two boys were to share, and the lunch their mum gave them.

No matter. Lorcan wasn't hungry anyway.

The others become engrossed in their food and each other, and they begin a loud, laughter-filled conversation debating the merits of Chocolate Frogs versus Fizzing Whizbees. Lorcan slips into the background, as per usual. His traveling partners seem to have forgotten altogether that he so much as exists. It's starting to get a bit tiresome, but he supposes he can't blame them, not really. He's just too quiet: Lorcan knows that if he wants attention he has to demand it, and he just can't do that.

So he sits, and listens, and learns. And maybe his heart aches a little, but mostly he's just happy to have learned some names.

Then, of course, Lysander appears.

He always does, Like clockwork, or magic. Or something. He always pops up when he's least wanted, and then somehow immediately becomes the most wanted person in the room. And today is no exception.

He waltzes into the compartment with a sunny smile and a bag full of raspberry scones. "Hello!" he chirps enthusiastically. "I've got food for you, Lorcan." He then pauses, and surveys the rest of his present company. "Ah. Nice to meet you lot."

"Likewise." Rose says. "You must be the other twin – Lysander."

"That's me!" Lysander exclaims, thrilled. "Now," he adds pensively, "I can guess who some of you are, but I'd prefer the official introduction."

Rose instantly obliges, running rapidly through the list of names, before shooting Lysander another hundred-watt smile. Lysander sits down between Lorcan and Albus, squishing his twin up against the compartment wall.

And if Lorcan had felt invisible before, that was nothing compared to how transparent he feels now. He spends the rest of the ride listening to his twin spout out veritable rivers of endless, effortless charm. Lysander seems to have instantly befriended every single person in the room. Not even four hours, and he's already got two inside jokes with Rose, another three with Albus, an invitations both to Dominique's Halloween party and to ride Hugo's dragon, as soon as he gets one.

Lorcan is _so _jealous. He tries not to be, but it is so hard, when your brother is perfect, delightful at worst, and you are adequate, acceptable at best. He lives in the shadows. He hates it.

They pull into Hogsmeade Station, and all the other students on the train begin to get off, chattering and laughing excitedly. Lorcan tries to follow his compartmentmates, but he gets lost in the crowd.

"FIRS' YEARS! FIRS' YEARS OVER HERE!" Lorcan hears someone bellow loudly, and he turns to see a veritably enormous man with an equally large beard calling across the hubbub, swinging a lantern in one hand. Is he a first year? He's going to be taking third year classes, but he doesn't know what House he's in yet, or anything about Hogwarts, really. Oh, Merlin, he'd forgotten about the Sorting; apparently it was forbidden for anyone to learn what it was before being Sorted themselves. Argh. He's been so busy worrying about where to go that he's forgotten about House placement-

But where was he supposed to go? Lorcan starts to seriously panic. The platform is clearing now, and Lorcan is left alone. Where... What... Why hadn't anyone given him any proper directions?

He feels a tug on the sleeve of his newly-donned robes, and whirls around in alarm. It's only Lysander, who looks distinctly annoyed. "Where did you go?" he hisses, dragging Lorcan along behind him: although Lorcan is taller, Lysander is significantly stronger. "Come on!"

"What's this?" Lorcan asks, wresting himself free of his twin. "Do you know what we're supposed to do?"

Lysander stops dead in his tracks, and Lorcan has to pinwheel his arms to keep from running into his brother. Lysander shoots a disbelieving stare in his direction. "Seriously? Didn't Mum tell you _anything_?"

"Apparently not," Lorcan aches to say, but instead he just keeps walking. He sees a man up ahead, whose robes appear, in the lamplight, to be covered completely in mud. Drawing nearer, Lorcan can see that not only are his black robes now more brown than anything, he has a large smear of dirt across his left cheekbone, and a maple leaf sticking out of his hair.

"Professor Longbottom?" Lysander asks, with complete confidence, and the man spots them.

"Ah! Yes! That's me!" he says brightly, and begins digging through his pockets. "And you two must be the Scamander twins. Lysander and … um … Lewis, wasn't it?"

"Lorcan," he corrects, but Professor Longbottom doesn't seem to hear a thing.

"I was great friends with your mum, you know, back in our school days," he points out conversationally. "We did that whole DA thing together, fighting Dark Arts and all that. Good times, good times... well, actually, they weren't, not at all, but what can you do, eh? I liked your mum. We were very close, but then we both got married and didn't have the time to keep up properly... And, of course, she was always in mad places. She took you boys, too, right? South Africa, was it, this time, or Brazil? Chile? Portugal? Something in there..."

Lorcan thinks that this professor seems to be rather mad. For once, Lysander seems to agree with him, judging by the wide-eyed looks the twins are sharing while Professor Longbottom rummages through the pockets of his robe.

"They sent me to come fetch you, seeing as I'm the most junior professor here," he continues, frowning at his knees. "It's really very unconventional circumstances. It took Headmistress McGonagall ages to come up with the proper solution as to what to do with you. Couldn't let you mingle with eleven year olds, wouldn't be right, old kids like you would steal all their glory. But where to seat you, if Sorting had to take place after... Moved it up, kept it secret... Aha! Here it is!" he exclaims triumphantly, holding up what appears to be a _very _battered edition of the Daily Prophet. Someone, at some point, has doodled mustaches over all the politicians in the front page articles, and then folded it into what appears to be a hat. It doesn't look much like a hat, but then it doesn't look much like a newspaper, either.

"Come on, then," Professor Longbottom insists, "Grab hold, or we'll miss it!"

Lysander obeys immediately, and Lorcan follows, though not without some trepidation.

"Three... two... one..." mutters the professor, "er... one half... one quarter... er, any time now..."

And then a most unpleasant sensation grips Lorcan. It's as if something has snagged him by the rib cage and dragged him through a whirlpool. He doesn't like it at all.

And then he's standing, blinking, in a huge empty room with a sky for a ceiling.

"What in the name of Merlin was that?" he gasps, blinking. Neither of his companions answer him.

"Get on with it!" Professor Longbottom urges, pushing them forward. Lorcan stumbles over his own feet, as he's only just noticed that there are about twelve adult wizards sitting at a table chatting, each and every one of them pretending not to see the trio.

Lysander, of course, rises perfectly to the occasion, and walks ahead to where a very battered hat is sitting on a stool. He seats himself, jams the hat on his head, and waits.

"What's going on?" Lorcan asks Professor Longbottom, but the man just hushes him and watches Lysander, who is just sitting there, face hidden beneath the hat's brim, fiddling with the hems of his sleeves.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouts the hat, after at least five minutes of contemplation, and Lorcan is startled. Not only did a hat just speak, but apparently that was the Sorting ceremony itself, and it was rather more informal than he expected. On top of that, Lysander was apparently a Hufflepuff, which was not the house Lorcan had expected to see him in. He'd been wagering on Gryffindor for sure, or maybe Ravenclaw...

He supposed it made sense, though. Lysander is great with people, and a Hufflepuff's greatest attributes are said to be their diligence and their loyalty. Lysander has both of those, plus a dash of humor and an entire gravy boat full of charm, so he figured his twin would make an excellent Hufflepuff.

But now it seems to be his turn to be Sorted, and before he realizes what's happening, he's perched on the stool and the Hat is on his head.

_Ah, _the hat says, _you're practically a textbook case. Brilliant but lazy, better with books than people, astoundingly unmotivated, not unopposed to cutting corners, but very opposed to dishonesty and cheating, just want to be left to yourself, really – oh sweet Merlin, did you really say that? Heavens, you have got to be one of the most awkward people I've ever met. Seriously, invest in a self-help book or something, you're never going to get a girl, not if you keep this up-_

_**Excuse me, **_Lorcan thinks at the hat,**_ You're rather rude, for a hat that looks so old my grandfather wouldn't wear it in public._**

_Ouch, _the hat replies, _I remember your grandfather. Odd bloke. You're really rather nasty, like I said... You never play fair. You never play at all, outside your own head, though, so I suppose your underhandedness isn't really the problem. Honestly, I wasn't joking about the self-help book, you could really use it-_

_**Aren't you sorting me? **_Lorcan reminds him, irritated.

_All right, all right, hold your horses, I was just trying to give some good advice, but if you insist you can be-_

"RAVENCLAW!"


	2. Lessons

**A/N: Harry Potter is not mine, regrettably. **

**Bonus points go to whoever can point out the original character that I blatantly ripped off from somewhere else. Also, please review. I like reviews. Also, I like it when people read my stories. Please do. :)**

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><p><em>The trouble with schools is, <em>

_They always try to teach the wrong lessons._

_("Dancing Through Life", from Wicked)  
><em>

There are only four boys in Ravenclaw in Lorcan's year. He doesn't mind, though: less people to share a bathroom with can hardly be a bad thing, right?

Of course, the fact that for the past two years its only been three boys means that they're all very close already, and none of them are very thrilled that Lorcan is butting in on their friendship. Which isn't to say that they haven't been nice: they've been perfectly polite and cordial and kind.

They just haven't been welcoming.

There's Thaddeus Nott, who has brown hair and astoundingly white teeth and piercing green eyes that look straight through Lorcan. There's Mike Chang, who has spiky hair and an _enormous _amount of energy and who seems to be the nicest of his new roommates. And there's Lawrence Moffett, who has curly, sandy hair, and a disarming way of speaking that makes Lorcan feel like he's constantly quoting things nobody else recognizes.

And Lorcan really does like them. They don't complain when they have to add him to the meticulously planned shower schedule, and when they lose valuable floor space to his (unbelievably luxurious) four-poster bed, they just shrug and continue.

Lorcan is genuinely astounded that he has met so many nice people in one day. Actually, he has just met more people in general in the past day than he has at any prior point in his entire life, so maybe he shouldn't be so shocked.

But then, as it grows later, things settle down. Everyone has unpacked, introduced themselves, and done all the necessary scheduling, and so each boy withdraws to their own business. Tad, as he prefers to be called, sits on his bed playing solitaire. Lawrence pulls out an astoundingly thick book and begins reading. Mike, strangely, appears to be having a dance party with himself in the middle of the room. Nobody else seems to have any problems with this, so Lorcan assumes that this is not an uncommon event for the group.

But now he doesn't know what to do with his hands, or his feet, or any of him really, and so he flees to the bathroom, where he takes a shower just for something to do: it's in between 10:04 and 10:21, anyway, so he already had that block of time scheduled.

As the steaming water pounds down on his back, Lorcan stands there and wonders how this is going to work. He feels so useless, because he really wants to get along with his new roommates. He needs them. But they don't need a fourth member to their exclusive little group, and they don't want one.

Lorcan steps out of the bathroom, hair still dripping wet, and is surprised to find that in the eleven and a half minutes since he left them, Tad, Mike, and Lawrence have all fallen asleep.

He's genuinely impressed, considering that it's fairly early yet, and that he usually lies awake for hours, mind racing, exhausted but unable to sleep.

But he really is tired: he's only just gotten over his jet lag, and he's worn out, and so he follows their lead and collapses into his astonishingly comfortable bed, where he sleeps until morning.

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><p>Breakfast.<p>

Lorcan likes breakfast.

Well, alright, Lorcan likes pancakes. The actual breakfast part is irrelevant, because although he doesn't know who to sit by or who to talk to or what to talk about, the pancakes have _blueberries. _

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><p>Classes.<p>

Lorcan likes his classes.

He does, however, like classes significantly less than blueberry pancakes.

He starts the day with Potions. It's a shared class with the Hufflepuffs, so he gets to see Lysander first thing off, which is both good (because at least he knows him) and bad (because they don't exactly always get along). Of course, there's a seating chart, and of course, it's alphabetical.

So, Potions seems as though it will become a class designated as Scamander Family Bonding Time. Yaaay.

The teacher is a woman who looks to be in her late forties. She introduces herself as Professor Una Entwhistle, and informs her class, rather snippily, that it is her first year teaching here. She has steel-gray hair that she pulls back in a severe bun, and eyes that are so frighteningly stern Lorcan can't even notice what color they are.

But she seems to be one of those teachers who is known for being notoriously fair, and though she gives off a vibe of being frighteningly strict, she doesn't seem at all cruel, and her teaching methods seem sound, if conventional. The first thing they do in class is take an individual proficiency test. They're required to brew a Shrinking Solution without outside assistance, and it's a potion that should, in theory, just be slightly above their current skill level.

The problem is, neither Lorcan or Lysander have any background at _all _in Potions. They can both make excellent Pepper-Up Potions, Fever Reducers, Pain Relievers, and a variation on Skele-Gro practically in their sleep, but that's it. They were both homeschooled since the age of four in all sorts of topics, but now is the first time that Lorcan has ever doubted Luna's skill in tutoring her sons. She did tend to focus on rather … unusual topics, but all the same, Lorcan has always felt confident in his own abilities. Until now. Now he feels like a rubber duck in an Olympic sized swimming pool.

But he tries. He follows the instruction exactly as written in his (used) potions textbook. And maybe he doesn't understand what a few of the terms mean, and he certainly doesn't understand any of the theory behind any of the steps. But at the end of the class, his potion is almost the right shade of green. Sure, it's a little too dark and a touch thinner than the book instructions specified, but at least he's on the right end of the color wheel. Lysander's potion is orange and the consistency of cottage cheese. Lorcan gets a strange sense of satisfaction out of being better than something than his twin, for once.

Professor Entwhistle doesn't grade the potions in front of them. She just collects the bottles and places them on her desk and fixes the entire class with a seriously scary glare.

Lorcan is glad to leave the classroom.

Next he has Ancient Runes. It's a class that includes all four houses, but Lysander isn't taking the course, so Lorcan is left to fend for himself. Both Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy are taking the class, and he shoots them a large grin as he enters the classroom. Both of them acknowledge his presence, at least, but they're sitting with each other, and Lorcan is still alone. The same thing happens again: Mike and Lawrence are in Ancient Runes. Together.

As the classroom fills up, he gets that panicked choking feeling of being alone again, and so he just sits down at a random table, next to a tiny girl with long black hair. He smiles awkwardly at her, and takes a deep breath to steel himself for an introduction.

"Hi. I'm Lorcan Scamander," he says tentatively, holding out a hand for a handshake.

The girl looks at it as if he has some sort of highly contagious disease. "Yeah. I'm Naomi Patil-Smith. I wish I could say it's nice to meet you, but it's really not. Why are you sitting next to me?"

Lorcan is shocked. She is, not to mince words, a genuine Grade-A bitch.

"I-" he stutters, "Don't know people – new here, sorry – didn't know – needed a seat -"

She sniffs. "Oh, stop blathering. I don't want to listen. Just don't do it again. I don't need some mouthbreathing idiot copying answers off my tests."

Lorcan is getting annoyed now. "Hey! I do not cheat."

She looks him up and down with a sneer on her face. "Mmm-hmm." she says sarcastically. "Oh, yeah, because somebody like you can totally get away with doing all their own work and still passing."

"Hey!" he interjects. "You don't know me!"

"Oh, really?" She lifts a skeptical eyebrow. "Lorcan Scamander, younger twin of Lysander Scamander, both born August Twelfth, 2005. Mother: Luna Lovegood Scamander; Father: Rolf Maximilian Scamander, both magicryptizoologists. Your maternal grandfather is editor of _The Quibbler_, and your paternal great-grandfather wrote _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. Your mother is a war hero; your father is a hippie. Your family spent the last eight years in Peru looking for some crazy animal. You didn't find it. You're a Ravenclaw. Your favorite book is _Catcher in the Rye_, and you still listen to The Beatles on your MagiPod. It's blue, but your favorite color is purple. Your favorite food is raspberry jam, you only wear mismatched socks because of a dare you made when you were five, and you still carry around a giant stuffed T-Rex named Margo. You're five feet six inches tall, and you weigh..." she lets her eyes flicker up and down his body, making Lorcan distinctly uncomfortable, "One hundred and two pounds."

Lorcan's jaw drops open. He can't help it. "How did you know all that about me? I … A lot of that stuff I don't tell _anyone. _Where did you learn all that stuff?"

She smirks. "Your brother told me."

Lorcan has no words. "When?"

"Yesterday, on the train." she drawls. "He dropped his trunk on my toe, so we talked for about twenty minutes. It was very … educational."

"I cannot believe either of you," Lorcan says, outraged. "What gave him the right to tell you all that? And what gave you the right to ask him?"

She yawns. "Nobody. But seriously, it's not like I care. Whatever. Be upset if you want, I'm just here to learn."

Lorcan is frustrated. "You're the one who started this whole thing! You don't get to retreat to moral high ground now!"

"Oh, I'm not on moral high ground," Naomi points out, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder. "I'm just a genuine Grade-A bitch."

Lorcan is left speechless by that remark. Luckily, he is saved from having to come up with a remark by the entrance of the teacher, a willowy blonde woman about his parents age.

"All right, class, glad you're enjoying yourselves," she said, with a friendly smile on her face. Then her expression froze suddenly, going colder and harder than the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. "Now shut up. We are here to learn Ancient Runes. We are not here to chat."

Lorcan gulps. Regardless of her appearance, this woman is far more frightening than Professor Entwhistle.

She begins pacing back and forth in front of her desk, expensive silk robes billowing behind her as her shoes make loud clacking noises on the stone floor. "I hope you all like your seats, because you're keeping them for the semester." She stopped her pacing abruptly, and leaned forward, fixing her eyes on each and every member of the class. "Ancient Runes is a difficult subject, and I will not be moving slowly. I understand if the pace is too rapid for some of this class to follow. If you cannot keep up, you will leave this class or I will eject you from the class. Understand this: By the time you graduate from this school, you will be among the best in the entire wizarding world. But to get there, you will all have to work hard. Very hard. You might think that I have high standards, but my standards are nothing compared to those of the world. If I expect you to do something, you had better do it, because later down the line, your employer will expect you to do the exact same thing, only faster, and better, and in context, and with considerable difficulty added.

"So let me make this clear. If I catch any of you, _any on you_, not paying attention, or failing to do your work, or otherwise not living up to my exacting standards, I assure you that I _will_ make you regret it. And then I'll kick you out of this class. My name is Professor Greengrass. I am not to be trifled with."

She stopped, and surveyed the class, then she clapped her hands and smiled. "Okay! Speech over!" She hopped on top of her desk, and picked up the textbook. "All right. Everyone turn their books to page three. We'll begin with the alphabet. Repeat after me..."


End file.
